


Faulty Wires

by DramaticCrys



Series: Defining Us [2]
Category: Camp Camp (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Coping, Depression, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Mentions of Death, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Self-Harm, Suicidal Tendencies, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, cursing, mentally unstable
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-03
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-01-28 17:59:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12612216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DramaticCrys/pseuds/DramaticCrys
Summary: There'll be a day.A day he won't think of these things.A day he won't worry about how David will manage after his passing.A day he won't worry how Nikki and Neil will react.He won't worry at all.He won't care either.He won't care at all.There'll be a day.But when is the real question.





	1. Home

Sometimes, life hurts. 

It squeezes us tightly. 

To the point of strangulation. 

Your throat constricts. 

You can't scream.

You can't move.

You can only grab at the hands forcing themselves onto your neck and hope someone notices.

But they never do. 

Because you never tell them.

Because you can't. 

Because you're being strangled.

But…

You're still breathing. 

Deep breaths. 

It just FEELS like you're in a closed and tight grip, left at life's mercy.

But it never is, is it?

Your throat tightens up. 

You can't swallow. 

You can't talk. 

It hurts. 

It hurts all the time. 

This feeling... It's making him crazy.

~

Max walked into the surburban home and took a deep breath. 

He was finally home. 

"I'm going to put my stuff away." Max turned to David as he hung up his coat and removed his shoes. David did the same as he nodded. 

It's been 8 weeks since Max was taken to the hospital. He had to spend a lot of his time in physical therapy and actual therapy. Which fucking sucked. 

Max hated talking to random ass people. Especially adults. Especially about his feelings. 

They diagnosed Max with many things. Too much to remember. But depression was the big one. Obviously. They told him that his anxieties didn't help the problem, nor did his insomnia. 

Max headed up the staircase, suitcase in hand, and walked into his room. 

He paused, and walked back out, before entering again. 

"Uh, David?" Max stared as he shouted. 

"Yes Max?" David called up, followed by the thumping of him walking up the steps.

"Where's the door?" David stopped beside Max and turned to him.

"You don't have a door anymore." Max turned to him and glared. 

"What the hell does that mean?" David scratched the back of his neck and looked everywhere, anywhere but at Max.

"Well, Max, we're, uh, we're still on a difficult path right now. And I need to ensure your well-being any way I can." David stuttered out, he tried his best to sound stern. But failed.

"What about the windows? Why are they boarded?" Max crossed his arms and leaned against the now barren doorframe. 

"To prevent any rash decisions. This is a two story house." Max groaned and stomped into his room. 

"This would be my que to slam the door. But OH, wait a second, I don't fucking have one!" Max flopped onto his bed and rolled on his side. 

"Max," David stepped closer with a gentle tone, "you need to earn back my trust. I can't let anything happen to you. And I'll do anything to protect you. Even if you hate me for it."

That was a below the belt shot. So Max didn't answer. 

David sighed and walked out. 

"Dinner will be ready soon." His quiet tone echoed in the room as David left Max to his thoughts. 

That never ended well though, did it?

Max sighed and hugged his pillow close to his chest. His eyes drooped and strained to hold in his tears. 

Max knew the moment he woke up that he fucked up. 

He can't help but to wonder what would've happened if he never did. He humors the thought.

His mind travels to David. 

Travels to David lying on the hospital bed, next to his lifeless body. He imagines his wails of agony. His red eyes and tear striken face. His tight grip on Max, hoping it'll bring him back. 

But it doesn't. 

He thinks about Nikki and Neil. 

What would they have done when they found out?

Would they blame themselves? 

Would they be sad?

…

Would they care?

Max shakes his head and moves on.

His mind wonders to what would've happened if he never tried in the first place. 

He'd probably still be miserable. 

He'd think about it every day. 

Dream about it at night. 

Dream of the thought of that utter bliss of nothingness. 

Have nightmares of David's face. David's voice. Asking him why he did it. What he did wrong. David asks these things with a noose around his neck. 

Max shudders.

He'd eventually do it.

Max wonders if he would die then. Or would this whole process be repeated?

He doesn't know. 

Nor does he care. 

Cause one day? 

He won't think of these things. 

He won't worry about how David will manage after his passing. 

He won't worry how Nikki and Neil will react. 

He won't worry at all.

He won't care either. 

He won't care at all. 

"Dinners ready!" Max took a deep breath.

"Coming!"


	2. Attacks

In

And out.

In 

And out. 

It's okay... 

Just breathe. 

I'm here.

In

And out.

In 

And out. 

Max followed his instructions as best as he could. He was shaky. His eyes were wide and wet and his breathing was ragged at first. His cheeks were stained with tears with tints of red and pink.

But David's here. 

"Breathe, okay?" Max took another deep breath in. "That's it." Out.

"I'm here." Max's shoulders relaxed. "It's okay." It was getting easier to breathe. 

David's hand slowly reached toward him. David looked at Max and he nodded. 

He gently brushed his thumb against his cheek. Tears fell down Max's face. And Max was okay with it, now that his guard is down and David is here. 

David moved closer and gently kissed his forehead. Whispering affirmations and consolations.

Max leaned into the soft touch and let his mind be taken away by the sound of David's voice. 

~

It was late at night. 

Max hasn't been home for very long, but he's home, none the less. 

He woke with a jolt, giving himself a slight head rush. He held his head with his hand and scanned the room. He must've fell asleep while watching YouTube.

He is, awake now. Right?

He can't tell. It's too dark.

The room was so dark. 

Pitch black. 

He couldn't see. Couldn't see a damn thing. 

His breathing picked up. 

Why's it so dark?

Max quickly sat up and looked around. 

He began to shake and his pulse quickened. His heart thumped loudly in his chest. 

Why's it so dark? 

His eyes scanned the room for any light.

Any light at all. 

But there wasn't. 

He was surrounded. Surrounded in darkness.

He reached for his phone, usually on the night stand next to his bed. But it was gone. 

His heart was hammering now, making his chest hurt. His eyes went wide, his pupils dilating to try and adjust to the unfamiliar lighting. 

He can't see. 

He can't see.

It's dark. 

Why's it so dark?

The wood creaked outside his door. 

He stopped. 

His breathing stopped.

His heart stopped.

His mind stopped.

Everything was still. 

He looked towards the place he heard the noise and waited. 

The door knob jiggled slightly. 

Max silently gasped and ducked by his bed. Sheltered by the small gap between the wall and his bed. 

He covered his head with his hands and waited. It felt like he was waiting forever. He didn't know what he was waiting for exactly. The stillness of the room was more chilling than calming.

He panted and swallowed the excess spit collecting his throat.

"--ax?"

It's okay. 

It's okay. 

Don't worry. 

It's okay. 

"Max?" 

Breathe. 

You'll be fine. 

It's okay. 

It's okay. 

"Max!" 

Max looked up and saw David. 

He was down on his knees and right in front of Max. There was little light from the hall, but Max could still make out the worried gaze that David had. 

"It's okay." David whispered. 

"Just breathe. I'm right here with you." 

He followed David's breathing patterns. It was calming, as much as Max hated to admit. But David usually calmed Max with ease. 

David helped Max up and gently guided him back on his bed. He sat down next to him. 

The older man gently caressed his face as he whispered to him. His fingers slipped down his cheek in a feathering motion.

Most nights ended this way. 

With David running into Max's room in the early hours of the morning. 

It happened so much that David didn't sleep until after Max's anxiety attack.

But he's been so tired.

He fell asleep on the couch before he even sent Max to bed. 

Max must've shut off the light before he went to sleep.

David felt awful for this. 

Usually he was able to calm Max down before he started shaking. Shaking led to quick actions, shortened breathing, heart racing, basically a lot of dangerous stuff that Max's body can't handle right now.

It's too late for feeling guilty though. 

All he can do right now?

Is help him breathe. 

And get him back to sleep. 

It's all he knows how to do.

~

Panic attacks and anxiety attacks are very different.

Anxiety attacks occur when in a frightful situation, or it's triggered by something. 

Panic attacks are random and annoying. It kinda just pops up. And before you even know what's happening, you're panting and your vision is darkening at a fast rate. 

Max experiences both. None more often than the other. None more fun than the other. They both suck equally. 

David remembers Max's first of both. 

He didn't know which was which then though. Hell, he didn't even know what was happening then. 

His "dad senses" went off in the middle of the night. Woke him from a good dream about Pine trees. 

When he got up to get some water, he felt….off. Like he had an itch but didn't know where it was, so you kind of just scratch everywhere it could be. 

So that's what he did. 

He checked every room of the house. 

And then Max's room. 

Max wasn't on the bed. His sheets were thrown to the floor, like he was in a hurry. 

He wasn't in the bathroom, David already looked. 

"Max?" He opened the door more and the blueish night light from the hallway lit up the room. The blue hue was off-putting and David felt like he was in a horror movie. Maybe Max was finally plotting revenge for all of his fun activities at camp? 

He took a cautious step in and scanned the room. 

He jumped at the dark figure sitting in the corner and was prepared to scream in a very manly manner, until he realized it was Max. He faced morphed from fear to concern at top speed and he slid down to the 11 year old. 

"Hey, hey Max? Hey buddy? What's wrong?" He cupped Max's face and turned it upwards. He was shaking uncontrollably, David could feel the fear through his hands. And could see it in the small boys eyes. Max's eyes were stained red and his cheeks were wet with tears. He moved his thumbs in circles over his cheeks. 

"It's okay buddy, it's okay. What's wrong?" Max just shook his head and looked down. Figuring it was a nightmare, he moved behind Max and pulled his back to his chest. He pulled his legs in to his chest and wrapped his arms around Max's torso. 

He rocked him back to sleep. 

Back then, he didn't know what was happening. He ended up googling it, just before taking him to the psychiatrist and getting an actual diagnosis. 

Anxiety. 

David didn't know what that meant for Max. He knows what it is, but not what'll happen. Or what's going to happen. The psychiatrist was helpful, but not very clear. He googled different things about the subject in the end. 

What it is. 

What it does. 

How it affects children. 

How to help.

Examples. 

So on and so forth. 

Max was not happy with David trying to get him to try bonding methods that were supposed to help. 

He was thankful though. 

Not that'd he'd ever say it aloud. 

And if you say anything, he'll just deny it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took so long! And I also apologize for the confusing state of this chapter..


	3. Left Unsaid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the long wait. I've had exams to study for and life got ahead of me.

Depression isn't easy to talk about. 

It's not something you bring up in an average day conversation. 

When people talk about depression, it usually isn't about them or whoever they're talking to. It has something to do with the media, or it's about something stupid their teacher or counselor said about the subject. 

When people think of depression, they think of self harm. They think of suicide. Of broken people. Of attention whores. Of people just looking for excuses. 

But depression doesn't have to be any of those things. 

Just because you're not diagnosed with depression and hopped up on antidepressants doesn't mean your experience isn't real.

Just because you don't have gashes along your forearm, bicep, stomach, and thighs doesn't mean you're not in pain. 

Just because you don't starve yourself doesn't mean you don't hate the way you look. 

Just because you've never experienced anything tramatic doesn't mean your heart isn't aching. 

Just because you constantly seek for your friends and families approval doesn't mean you're an attention whore. 

Just because you need constant affirmation from your loved ones doesn't mean you're just using them to feel better.

Just because you don't have difficulties finding the will to do the simplest of things doesn't mean you don't dread waking up the next morning.

Just because you don't have a sign on your forehead saying, "I'm depressed" doesn't mean you're not. Just because you can't openly show your scars, stand on a weight scale and hate the numbers you see, find your will to live, find your will to care, doesn't mean you're not depressed. 

And when you do find out you're depressed; what do you say? 

Do you tell your parents in hopes they understand? Or do you feel like a bother? Do your parents and family support you and care for you? Or do they roll their eyes and shake their head at you?

Do you confide in your friends? Or do you feel like they don't care about you enough to hear about your problems? Do you friends rub your back and ask how your day was? Do they even listen?

Depression isn't easy to talk about. 

So it is left unsaid. 

It is left to those with dark bags from insomnia to those with bright smiles that don't break until the cold water of the shower beam hits them. 

It is left to those who cry in the bathroom when no one can hear them. Razor in hand. Blood streaming down their forearm and onto the bathroom tile. 

It is left to those who will eventually give up.

And if they do talk about it?

What do they hope for? What do you get out of it?

Do you hope your friends are understanding and try to help? Do you even want their help? 

Do you hope your parents don't decide to commit you to some medical treatment hospital like someone with a serious mental illness? Or do you go willingly because you know without help you're doomed?

Telling someone may help. 

It may not.

If you tell someone about your experience they may look at you differently. They may look at you like your a beaten puppy, but you're not. You're just depressed. 

If you tell someone it might change their attitude towards you. They may stop asking why you wear long sleeves all the time, even under t-shirts. They may choose their words wisely when talking to you. 

They may show they want to be there for you.

If you tell someone they might not care. They may ask you why you just can't be happy. They may ask why you can't just try harder. 

They'll never understand. 

If you tell someone and they empathize with you? If they've been through what you're going through? You may feel a weight off your shoulders when they try to show you how they care without treating you like you're damaged.   
Because you're not. 

You're just depressed. 

~

Max didn't tell anyone. Not a soul. Maybe he felt like a bother? Or maybe he just didn't get around to it. He could've just not cared whether someone knew or not. 

Max always wore long sleeves of some sort. Even during the hottest of summers, and he was never one to really swim, so he never took off his shirt. 

Some days David would see Max scratching his arm rather…. gently. Which was odd to David. If someone has a bug bite they're scratching at it with disdain, taking out all their frustrations on it. But Max would barely drag his nails over the fabric of his sleeve. David didn't say anything about it.

David wished he paid more attention.

~

Max would often stare at David while riding in the car. It would have a comfortable silence and David could feel Max's eyes on him. 

But he wouldn't turn his head. 

He wouldn't ask what was up. 

He just waited. 

He waited for Max to be ready to talk about whatever was on his mind. 

But he never did. 

David often wishes he asked more questions. 

~

When Max stared at him, he was willing himself to tell him. 

Just say it. 

You need help. 

You can't do this anymore.

David. 

Please. 

I'm so tired. 

Max knows David would never hate him. Could never hate him even if David tried. That's what Max loved about him the most. 

Max could fuck up in the most obnoxious way possible and David would still smile kindly at him. He would still care about if he was eating his dinner properly in the room he was grounded to. 

He'd still come in and wish him a goodnight. 

Doing this made Max feel secure. Like he wouldn't ever be abandoned again. Like he could make mistakes without worry of a harsh punishment and looks of hatred every time he passed by. 

So Max didn't know why he couldn't say those two words. 

I'm depressed. 

Sometimes, he'd open his mouth, willing the words to make an escape, but they never did. 

Max could never pinpoint why he couldn't talk to David. David gives good advice. 

Maybe he was scared of disappointing him. He was afraid of that sad look in David's eyes when he would have to hear about Max hurting. The pain too much to bare, he hurts himself to feel some relief.

How could he tell him? 

Well, he couldn't. 

Because depression isn't easy to talk about.


End file.
